.
It doesn't look much better in print than it did on my computer, but I didn't learn until today that a short opinion piece I had written in haste had indeed been published the day after I sent it in. Because the newspaper seems to have a habit of not acknowledging submissions, I just assumed it had been 86'ed, licked my wounds and forgot about it.
Then, three days after it appeared, a couple of friends on the peace picket line teased me about it today. Now, once again, I am forced to revisit its flaws.
Can't win for losing. :)
.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
pilgrimage
.
What pilgrim is this up ahead
Who pauses in his forward stride,
Looks back at me an then extends
A helpful hand and grasps with ease
My breathless and despairing palm?
His warming touch is purely balm
And yet his pace is not reduced.
He has no interest or disdain
For my tear-stained gratitude.
My good fortune makes no difference.
Day by day and year by year
We walk forward through the mists
That gather and recede by turns,
Blinding sometimes, sometimes bright.
Our hands move forward ... never mind.
And as time passes bit by bit
His touch grows lighter and lighter still
Until one day my pilgrim is no longer there.
I pause and glance behind and see
Another pilgrim, who is me.
.
What pilgrim is this up ahead
Who pauses in his forward stride,
Looks back at me an then extends
A helpful hand and grasps with ease
My breathless and despairing palm?
His warming touch is purely balm
And yet his pace is not reduced.
He has no interest or disdain
For my tear-stained gratitude.
My good fortune makes no difference.
Day by day and year by year
We walk forward through the mists
That gather and recede by turns,
Blinding sometimes, sometimes bright.
Our hands move forward ... never mind.
And as time passes bit by bit
His touch grows lighter and lighter still
Until one day my pilgrim is no longer there.
I pause and glance behind and see
Another pilgrim, who is me.
.
little nudges
.
.
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.
-- Marianne Williamson
It's not what's wrong with the world that scares people. What really scares them is that everything is all right.-- Martin Luther King, Jr.
.
religious advertising
.
It is probably a sign of my own wishy-washy character that I have a hidden bias against people who advertise themselves or others. (And here I sit writing a blog which could be equally accused of advertising myself.)
An example of this poorly-founded bias is my slight cringing when I see people wearing clothing with labels on the chest or ass or carrying hand bags with the maker's logo all over them. It's as if, without someone else's label to support them, these people might be less worthy, less elevated, less deserving of respect as people with their own personalities. "Chickenshit!" my querulous bias observes, although there is no solid evidence to prove that those adorned with labels are any less substantive than anyone else.
In England, the top gun Roman Catholic, Cardinal Keith O'Brien, is said to be planning to urge Christians to wear a cross around their necks ... "proudly." The sermon isn't to be delivered until tomorrow, Easter, but I doubt if any changes will be made, given the high probability that the sermon was leaked from the highest levels as a means of expanding its impact.
As in any endeavor, there is always a deep chasm that may divide artifacts from authenticity ... but still: Running around saying, "Look Ma! I'm a Christian!" makes me cringe as fingernails on a blackboard might make me shudder.
Look Ma! I'm a Buddhist!
Look Ma! I'm wealthy!
Look Ma! I'm a good person!
Ick! Ick! And more ick.
Oh well, fighting with bias is probably a poor strategy. But noticing it holds out some hope ... I hope.
.
It is probably a sign of my own wishy-washy character that I have a hidden bias against people who advertise themselves or others. (And here I sit writing a blog which could be equally accused of advertising myself.)
An example of this poorly-founded bias is my slight cringing when I see people wearing clothing with labels on the chest or ass or carrying hand bags with the maker's logo all over them. It's as if, without someone else's label to support them, these people might be less worthy, less elevated, less deserving of respect as people with their own personalities. "Chickenshit!" my querulous bias observes, although there is no solid evidence to prove that those adorned with labels are any less substantive than anyone else.
In England, the top gun Roman Catholic, Cardinal Keith O'Brien, is said to be planning to urge Christians to wear a cross around their necks ... "proudly." The sermon isn't to be delivered until tomorrow, Easter, but I doubt if any changes will be made, given the high probability that the sermon was leaked from the highest levels as a means of expanding its impact.
As in any endeavor, there is always a deep chasm that may divide artifacts from authenticity ... but still: Running around saying, "Look Ma! I'm a Christian!" makes me cringe as fingernails on a blackboard might make me shudder.
Look Ma! I'm a Buddhist!
Look Ma! I'm wealthy!
Look Ma! I'm a good person!
Ick! Ick! And more ick.
Oh well, fighting with bias is probably a poor strategy. But noticing it holds out some hope ... I hope.
.
the search for relief
.
A Buddhist allegory I have always liked came tiptoeing back and said "hi" this morning. The small encouragement tells of a time when the Buddha (Gautama) ran into a kid who was crying. Gautama held out a closed fist, pretending there was gold within. The child stopped crying. And when Gautama opened his fist, there was nothing there.
The story is enough for a lifetime, I'd say. But of course it is also a hellish seedbed from which weeds and thorns and explanations and beliefs rise up like that stupid TV show, "The Walking Dead." Zombie alert!
I guess one of the reasons I like the story and have it filed away in the 3x5 filebox I call this mind is that when it comes to Buddhism, I really don't give a shit about "Buddhism." I do, however, give a shit about tears. A crying child, like a crying adult, touches my heart ... although, at my age, I can get a bit testy about professional weepers. Tears are wet and warm and human. "Buddhism" is an afterthought.
Sitting on the porch, sipping the first sips of coffee this morning, as the thought-machine cranked into gear, I got to laughing. It didn't last all that long: Laughing when no one has told a joke or you have no company is a bit odd, and the 'oddness' reined in the brief laughing spell. But laughter, like tears, is something that touches my heart. Laughter is easy and doesn't lie ... just like sorrow.
The apparent, though not real, cause of the laughter was this: I was cud-munching about the role that "relief" plays in spiritual endeavor. Is there a spiritual endeavor anywhere that doesn't hold out a fist pretending to contain "relief," or an end to tears or something similar? Christians say you have to drop dead before you find the one true relief. Muslims promise 77 virgins or some other dubious relief. Buddhists wrap their fists around "enlightenment" or "emptiness" or "unexcelled understanding" or something similar. And even non-Buddhists might seek relief from one unfortunate set of circumstances or another. Wouldn't it be nice not to be burdened by these all-too-compelling tears? And you bet your ass it would ... maybe.
But in a very prosaic way, a way not yet dependent on "Buddhism" or any other fine philosophical format, did you ever notice...?" Notice that when seeking relief from some current set of circumstances (a very human and heart-touching hunt), perhaps the goal is achieved: The aspirin does in fact get rid of the headache; the windfall does in fact ease the pains of poverty; and the kindness of one person does in fact mitigate the cruelty of another. Problem solved, relief in hand ... ahhhh.
But what happens then? I think that anyone might admit that relief in hand is not exactly relief because it seems that having been relieved of one burden, the first thing anyone does is to go out and find another burden from which to seek relief. Over and over again. Leaving "Buddhism" or "Christianity" or any other refined philosophy out of it, this seems to be the way ... seek relief, find relief ... but the relief doesn't really put a period on the sentence. If the truth be told, it's a bit scary to imagine what life might be like if, somehow, I stopped praying for relief. This is a tried-and-true habit. I am who I am in part by insisting I need relief from the new tears that are flowing.
Relief is like eating potato chips ... can't just eat one!
But it is also like potato chips in that the nourishment value never seems to rise above the "tentative" level. This relief gives rise to the next needed relief. And if spiritual persuasion is appealing, there's always talk about some final relief ... some perfect surcease ... a surcease that, if I'm honest, scares the shit out of me even as I pretend to long for it.
There is nothing bad or naughty in any of this. Even a single-celled paramecium without a brain cell in sight will flee a toxic substance added to its environment under the microscope. And even a single-celled paramecium, without a brain cell to rely on, will approach what is nourishing... what will bring relief to its existence.
But I think it is worth noticing and considering: Tears are real and heart-rending and sometimes touching beyond measure. The search for relief is a habit in good-standing. But the search for relief is also a half-hearted search, one that sets up barriers to any real relief even as it reaches for the aspirin bottle.
The Buddha opened his hand and there was nothing there. No relief ... but the tears had stopped. Somehow that empty hand, that no-relief-in-sight (see for yourself!) is pretty important. Important and yet easy as laughter, easy as tears, easy as a headache. There's no need to fake it ... laughter, tears, headache ... who in their right mind could escape such things? When the heart aches or breaks in two, when the laughter courses through body and mind ... well, seriously, is there some need for "relief?" Does a dandelion or a maple leaf need "relief?"
Why should we be dumber than weeds or trees?
Maybe it's worth considering.
.
A Buddhist allegory I have always liked came tiptoeing back and said "hi" this morning. The small encouragement tells of a time when the Buddha (Gautama) ran into a kid who was crying. Gautama held out a closed fist, pretending there was gold within. The child stopped crying. And when Gautama opened his fist, there was nothing there.
The story is enough for a lifetime, I'd say. But of course it is also a hellish seedbed from which weeds and thorns and explanations and beliefs rise up like that stupid TV show, "The Walking Dead." Zombie alert!
I guess one of the reasons I like the story and have it filed away in the 3x5 filebox I call this mind is that when it comes to Buddhism, I really don't give a shit about "Buddhism." I do, however, give a shit about tears. A crying child, like a crying adult, touches my heart ... although, at my age, I can get a bit testy about professional weepers. Tears are wet and warm and human. "Buddhism" is an afterthought.Sitting on the porch, sipping the first sips of coffee this morning, as the thought-machine cranked into gear, I got to laughing. It didn't last all that long: Laughing when no one has told a joke or you have no company is a bit odd, and the 'oddness' reined in the brief laughing spell. But laughter, like tears, is something that touches my heart. Laughter is easy and doesn't lie ... just like sorrow.
The apparent, though not real, cause of the laughter was this: I was cud-munching about the role that "relief" plays in spiritual endeavor. Is there a spiritual endeavor anywhere that doesn't hold out a fist pretending to contain "relief," or an end to tears or something similar? Christians say you have to drop dead before you find the one true relief. Muslims promise 77 virgins or some other dubious relief. Buddhists wrap their fists around "enlightenment" or "emptiness" or "unexcelled understanding" or something similar. And even non-Buddhists might seek relief from one unfortunate set of circumstances or another. Wouldn't it be nice not to be burdened by these all-too-compelling tears? And you bet your ass it would ... maybe.
But in a very prosaic way, a way not yet dependent on "Buddhism" or any other fine philosophical format, did you ever notice...?" Notice that when seeking relief from some current set of circumstances (a very human and heart-touching hunt), perhaps the goal is achieved: The aspirin does in fact get rid of the headache; the windfall does in fact ease the pains of poverty; and the kindness of one person does in fact mitigate the cruelty of another. Problem solved, relief in hand ... ahhhh.
But what happens then? I think that anyone might admit that relief in hand is not exactly relief because it seems that having been relieved of one burden, the first thing anyone does is to go out and find another burden from which to seek relief. Over and over again. Leaving "Buddhism" or "Christianity" or any other refined philosophy out of it, this seems to be the way ... seek relief, find relief ... but the relief doesn't really put a period on the sentence. If the truth be told, it's a bit scary to imagine what life might be like if, somehow, I stopped praying for relief. This is a tried-and-true habit. I am who I am in part by insisting I need relief from the new tears that are flowing.
Relief is like eating potato chips ... can't just eat one!
But it is also like potato chips in that the nourishment value never seems to rise above the "tentative" level. This relief gives rise to the next needed relief. And if spiritual persuasion is appealing, there's always talk about some final relief ... some perfect surcease ... a surcease that, if I'm honest, scares the shit out of me even as I pretend to long for it.
There is nothing bad or naughty in any of this. Even a single-celled paramecium without a brain cell in sight will flee a toxic substance added to its environment under the microscope. And even a single-celled paramecium, without a brain cell to rely on, will approach what is nourishing... what will bring relief to its existence.
But I think it is worth noticing and considering: Tears are real and heart-rending and sometimes touching beyond measure. The search for relief is a habit in good-standing. But the search for relief is also a half-hearted search, one that sets up barriers to any real relief even as it reaches for the aspirin bottle.
The Buddha opened his hand and there was nothing there. No relief ... but the tears had stopped. Somehow that empty hand, that no-relief-in-sight (see for yourself!) is pretty important. Important and yet easy as laughter, easy as tears, easy as a headache. There's no need to fake it ... laughter, tears, headache ... who in their right mind could escape such things? When the heart aches or breaks in two, when the laughter courses through body and mind ... well, seriously, is there some need for "relief?" Does a dandelion or a maple leaf need "relief?"
Why should we be dumber than weeds or trees?
Maybe it's worth considering.
.
Friday, April 6, 2012
musical piss break
.
Passed along in email:
For men who feel that there is more to peeing than simply taking a leak, a Brazilian company has created a urinal that translates piss into guitar music.
No word on any complications arising from shakin' to the beat.
.
Passed along in email:
For men who feel that there is more to peeing than simply taking a leak, a Brazilian company has created a urinal that translates piss into guitar music.
No word on any complications arising from shakin' to the beat.
.
pity the overburdened banks
.
Banks that had their wings trimmed during the robo-signing scandal which temporarily stymied their foreclosure feeding frenzy are now back in the game with a vengeance. The Great Recession (which I prefer to call the New Depression) shows signs of flowering anew as foreclosure rates skyrocket.
I surely do hope the banks get their money ... that's ever so much more important than ethical behavior or a stumbling national economy which is now in danger of stumbling off a new and improved cliff.
.
Banks that had their wings trimmed during the robo-signing scandal which temporarily stymied their foreclosure feeding frenzy are now back in the game with a vengeance. The Great Recession (which I prefer to call the New Depression) shows signs of flowering anew as foreclosure rates skyrocket.
I surely do hope the banks get their money ... that's ever so much more important than ethical behavior or a stumbling national economy which is now in danger of stumbling off a new and improved cliff.
.
the "dancing boys" of Afghanistan
.
I suppose it's true in any war -- an open and soul-searing savagery attended by lesser lights of vile behavior.
No one talks about the taboo in Afghanistan, but here and there it is an open secret -- young, abandoned boys groomed for a life of sexual servitude.
One man admits he was grooming a nine-year-old for such a life because marrying a woman would have been prohibitively expensive.
The "dancing boys" of Afghanistan.
.
I suppose it's true in any war -- an open and soul-searing savagery attended by lesser lights of vile behavior.
No one talks about the taboo in Afghanistan, but here and there it is an open secret -- young, abandoned boys groomed for a life of sexual servitude.
One man admits he was grooming a nine-year-old for such a life because marrying a woman would have been prohibitively expensive.
The "dancing boys" of Afghanistan.
.
red-chair memorial
.
Today, it's happening in Sarajevo, as it happens, but how I wish it would happen anywhere in the wake of political ego-tripping that generally spills the blood of someone other than the ego-trippers.
The history of man is dotted with inspiring creations. But those creations never seem to have the power to divert or dissuade vast and vile depredations.
Will it happen again ... and again ... and again? Yes. Inspiring creation, vile depredation ... yes. And becoming either an optimist or a pessimist just assures more of the same... a self-congratulatory circle jerk.
But opening the eyes is possible. Taking personal responsibility is possible. Paying attention is possible.
Let's do that.
.
Today, it's happening in Sarajevo, as it happens, but how I wish it would happen anywhere in the wake of political ego-tripping that generally spills the blood of someone other than the ego-trippers.
The history of man is dotted with inspiring creations. But those creations never seem to have the power to divert or dissuade vast and vile depredations.
Will it happen again ... and again ... and again? Yes. Inspiring creation, vile depredation ... yes. And becoming either an optimist or a pessimist just assures more of the same... a self-congratulatory circle jerk.
But opening the eyes is possible. Taking personal responsibility is possible. Paying attention is possible.
Let's do that.
.
the insidiousness of spiritual effort
.
Like a consuming piece of bitter-sweet chocolate, the word "insidious" landed deliciously on my mind's palate this morning. Its hissing sibilance seemed to carry the word aptly beyond its simple meaning. What a good word.
An Internet version of the Merriam Webster dictionary defines "insidious" this way:
Drip, drip, drip ... bit by droplet bit, the water buckets of the mind fill up -- a collected nourishment that can also drown a careless baby. It is a subtle business as open to criticism as it is to praise... an intention that wins the attention and inspires action that reaches drip by drop into some unforeseen future, whether for better or worse ... or should that be "better and worse?"
Because the word "insidious" carries with it a negative connotation, I think I like it when it comes to religion and spiritual endeavor. Descriptives that praise and elevate spiritual endeavor are an open invitation to a lazy and smug and horrific potential. Descriptives that yank on the reins of a lolling laziness have a better chance of uncovering what is honestly useful and beneficial about the endeavor. Reaching conclusions is a risky and insidious business at best and a debilitating and bloody business at worst.
Let push come to shove and I guess I would stick with the insidious moniker when it comes to spiritual habits. A wary eye is warranted, as with any habit, if a nourishing outcome is going to be possible.
But I wouldn't want to be lazy about such an observation.
.
Like a consuming piece of bitter-sweet chocolate, the word "insidious" landed deliciously on my mind's palate this morning. Its hissing sibilance seemed to carry the word aptly beyond its simple meaning. What a good word.
An Internet version of the Merriam Webster dictionary defines "insidious" this way:
1. a: awaiting a chance to entrap: treacherous b: harmful but enticing: seductiveThe apparent fire that lit the fuse of insidiousness was wondering idly today whether religion and spiritual endeavor were significantly more insidious than any other human pastime. The religiously-zealous, knee-jerk responses of either so-called atheists or true-blue believers didn't interest me much. I was just curious ... not spoiling for some ego-tripping fight.
2. a: having a gradual and cumulative effect: subtle b: (of a disease): developing so gradually as to be well established before becoming apparent
Drip, drip, drip ... bit by droplet bit, the water buckets of the mind fill up -- a collected nourishment that can also drown a careless baby. It is a subtle business as open to criticism as it is to praise... an intention that wins the attention and inspires action that reaches drip by drop into some unforeseen future, whether for better or worse ... or should that be "better and worse?"
Because the word "insidious" carries with it a negative connotation, I think I like it when it comes to religion and spiritual endeavor. Descriptives that praise and elevate spiritual endeavor are an open invitation to a lazy and smug and horrific potential. Descriptives that yank on the reins of a lolling laziness have a better chance of uncovering what is honestly useful and beneficial about the endeavor. Reaching conclusions is a risky and insidious business at best and a debilitating and bloody business at worst.
Let push come to shove and I guess I would stick with the insidious moniker when it comes to spiritual habits. A wary eye is warranted, as with any habit, if a nourishing outcome is going to be possible.
But I wouldn't want to be lazy about such an observation.
.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
'helping' a bird
.
Once, when no one was looking, I helped a bird.
I lived on the top floor of a five-story, U-shaped apartment block and my living room windows looked across to the opposite side of the U and the roof that overhung it. And there, one day, as I looked out the window, I saw a bird whose leg was trapped in a rusted gutter crevasse. It was a black bird, maybe a grackle, though I'm no good with bird names outside the obviousness of robins or blue jays or cardinals.
As I watched, the bird flapped wildly in an attempt to free its leg. Flapped and flapped and flapped until it ran out of steam and hung defeated while it caught its breath ... and then flapped wildly once more. I watched this happen about three times -- battle and surrender, battle and surrender.
I was and remain no animal activist. I have harmed and wounded and killed animals mindlessly in the past ... not as a habit, but more or less out of some lazy sense that animals, when push came to shove, were in nature's care and nature was not always 'nice.' When I was hungry or imagining I was kool, animal lives took a back seat to my needs.
But as I watched this bird while no one was watching, some kind of imperative just grew up in me and would not be stilled. It had fuck-all to do with goodness or kindness or compassion or any other ethically-delicious element. It was just imperative.
So I climbed up to the roof and threaded through chimneys and water pipes until I came to the place directly across from my apartment. I half hoped the bird would be gone by the time I got there so I wouldn't be put in a position of either hurting it worse than it already was or having it, somehow, hurt me. But there was no such luck. The bird was there, just beyond the roof wall, stuck in the gutter's rusty maw.
When I arrived it was hanging limp, either exhausted or dead.
Gingerly, I reached down, trying to figure out the best way to grab a bird and having no ready answers. When the bird saw my hand, it began its flapping battle with renewed vigor ... which made grabbing it all the more uncertain. Finally, I became sick of my own uncertainties and slid my hand down from its head and over its flapping wings. I could feel its aliveness, imagine its fear. I was electrified with uncertainty and yet knew that my uncertainties were totally useless when it came to helping. So, as gently as I could, I reached down with my other hand and spread wide the gutter trap that was gnawing on the bird's leg. Its leg was out and free in an instant and in what seemed like the same instant I let go of the bird with relief. And off the bird flew.
There was no sense of success or pride. As the bird had been trapped, so had I -- trapped in my own nobody-looking imperative. It was something that somehow had to be done so in doing it, there was no room, no sense to enshrining the event. It was like seeing a $20 bill in the street -- of course you pick it up.
But as I look back now and shudder at the notion that anyone might call it a 'good' act, still I do think that such very natural imperatives are part of the human landscape and are worth paying attention to.
Helping, to the extent that it means anything at all, is just something that can't be helped.
.
Once, when no one was looking, I helped a bird.
I lived on the top floor of a five-story, U-shaped apartment block and my living room windows looked across to the opposite side of the U and the roof that overhung it. And there, one day, as I looked out the window, I saw a bird whose leg was trapped in a rusted gutter crevasse. It was a black bird, maybe a grackle, though I'm no good with bird names outside the obviousness of robins or blue jays or cardinals.
As I watched, the bird flapped wildly in an attempt to free its leg. Flapped and flapped and flapped until it ran out of steam and hung defeated while it caught its breath ... and then flapped wildly once more. I watched this happen about three times -- battle and surrender, battle and surrender.
I was and remain no animal activist. I have harmed and wounded and killed animals mindlessly in the past ... not as a habit, but more or less out of some lazy sense that animals, when push came to shove, were in nature's care and nature was not always 'nice.' When I was hungry or imagining I was kool, animal lives took a back seat to my needs.
But as I watched this bird while no one was watching, some kind of imperative just grew up in me and would not be stilled. It had fuck-all to do with goodness or kindness or compassion or any other ethically-delicious element. It was just imperative.
So I climbed up to the roof and threaded through chimneys and water pipes until I came to the place directly across from my apartment. I half hoped the bird would be gone by the time I got there so I wouldn't be put in a position of either hurting it worse than it already was or having it, somehow, hurt me. But there was no such luck. The bird was there, just beyond the roof wall, stuck in the gutter's rusty maw.
When I arrived it was hanging limp, either exhausted or dead.
Gingerly, I reached down, trying to figure out the best way to grab a bird and having no ready answers. When the bird saw my hand, it began its flapping battle with renewed vigor ... which made grabbing it all the more uncertain. Finally, I became sick of my own uncertainties and slid my hand down from its head and over its flapping wings. I could feel its aliveness, imagine its fear. I was electrified with uncertainty and yet knew that my uncertainties were totally useless when it came to helping. So, as gently as I could, I reached down with my other hand and spread wide the gutter trap that was gnawing on the bird's leg. Its leg was out and free in an instant and in what seemed like the same instant I let go of the bird with relief. And off the bird flew.
There was no sense of success or pride. As the bird had been trapped, so had I -- trapped in my own nobody-looking imperative. It was something that somehow had to be done so in doing it, there was no room, no sense to enshrining the event. It was like seeing a $20 bill in the street -- of course you pick it up.
But as I look back now and shudder at the notion that anyone might call it a 'good' act, still I do think that such very natural imperatives are part of the human landscape and are worth paying attention to.
Helping, to the extent that it means anything at all, is just something that can't be helped.
.
to swoon
.
To swoon. To be consumed by deliciousness and just ... swoon. Ahhhhhh!
It occurred to me yesterday that there was a time when swooning was a sine qua non of my interests in and demands on spiritual endeavor.
Specifically, I can remember being delighted-to-death with the historical 'proofs,' that spiritual experience in one part of the world and in one particular spiritual persuasion were demonstrably similar to spiritual experience in another part of the world and in another spiritual persuasion. Such proofs eased my anxiety about the pig-headedness of spiritual persuasions in their singularities. Those proofs put meat on the Veda bones, "Truth is one, wise men call it by many names." In my uncertainty about spiritual life, empirical proof was to swoon for!
But yesterday it occurred to me that swoons of the past had been replaced by the somewhat indelicate observation, "What the fuck did you expect?!"
Swooning, blissing out, feeling eased and relieved ... what the hell does that have to do with anything?!
OK, it has to do with 'me.'
But the question remains unanswered ... what the hell does that have to do with anything?
Swooning and bliss are good reminders I suppose, but putting spiritual endeavor on a swoon footing is just asking for trouble.
.
To swoon. To be consumed by deliciousness and just ... swoon. Ahhhhhh!
It occurred to me yesterday that there was a time when swooning was a sine qua non of my interests in and demands on spiritual endeavor.
Specifically, I can remember being delighted-to-death with the historical 'proofs,' that spiritual experience in one part of the world and in one particular spiritual persuasion were demonstrably similar to spiritual experience in another part of the world and in another spiritual persuasion. Such proofs eased my anxiety about the pig-headedness of spiritual persuasions in their singularities. Those proofs put meat on the Veda bones, "Truth is one, wise men call it by many names." In my uncertainty about spiritual life, empirical proof was to swoon for!But yesterday it occurred to me that swoons of the past had been replaced by the somewhat indelicate observation, "What the fuck did you expect?!"
Swooning, blissing out, feeling eased and relieved ... what the hell does that have to do with anything?!
OK, it has to do with 'me.'
But the question remains unanswered ... what the hell does that have to do with anything?
Swooning and bliss are good reminders I suppose, but putting spiritual endeavor on a swoon footing is just asking for trouble.
.
news that makes me wonder
.
-- In Rome, Pope Benedict XVI unleashed a barrage of criticism today against priests who ignore the Roman Catholic mandate for celibacy and who may also suggest that women could or should be priests. The pope suggested such priests were being selfish by ignoring his authority. No word on whether the pope was being selfish by asserting that authority.
-- In economically-distressed Italy, the justice system has everyone tearing their hair out. "Falsifying a one euro ($1.33) bus ticket in Italy is a criminal offence eligible for a full trial and two appeals that would cost the state many thousands of euros." Without a functioning justice system, any country risks its economic development... not to mention devolving into the anarchy of the Kalashnikov. Plans to impose austerity in the financially-beleaguered country are at the mercy of a judicial system hamstrung by its laws.
-- And speaking of Kalashnikovs, Viktor Bout, "The Merchant of Death," is scheduled to learn today how long he will spend in jail for being a successful arms dealer. For the U.S. to convict a man of being what the U.S. is spectacularly successful at has the same ludicrous aroma as convicting the guards at Abu Ghraib of torture. P.S. Here is a post-sentencing follow-up story.
-- The Kurds, historically consigned to nigger status by those who laid claim to what the Kurds consider their land, are taking another run at asserting their dignity and sovereignty. On Sunday, the Kurds shut off oil exports and accused Baghdad of failing to pay companies working in what is currently called the "autonomous region" of Kurdistan. "Autonomous," of course, is not the same as being free-standing. Oil being what oil is, the potential for a whizzing-bullet future gains impetus. Kurdistan says it has the power to control oil. Baghdad, and the rest of the world hungry for Kurdistan's black gold, disagrees ... and is probably willing to reassert its view of Kurdish second-class citizenship.
.
-- In Rome, Pope Benedict XVI unleashed a barrage of criticism today against priests who ignore the Roman Catholic mandate for celibacy and who may also suggest that women could or should be priests. The pope suggested such priests were being selfish by ignoring his authority. No word on whether the pope was being selfish by asserting that authority.
-- In economically-distressed Italy, the justice system has everyone tearing their hair out. "Falsifying a one euro ($1.33) bus ticket in Italy is a criminal offence eligible for a full trial and two appeals that would cost the state many thousands of euros." Without a functioning justice system, any country risks its economic development... not to mention devolving into the anarchy of the Kalashnikov. Plans to impose austerity in the financially-beleaguered country are at the mercy of a judicial system hamstrung by its laws.
-- And speaking of Kalashnikovs, Viktor Bout, "The Merchant of Death," is scheduled to learn today how long he will spend in jail for being a successful arms dealer. For the U.S. to convict a man of being what the U.S. is spectacularly successful at has the same ludicrous aroma as convicting the guards at Abu Ghraib of torture. P.S. Here is a post-sentencing follow-up story.
-- The Kurds, historically consigned to nigger status by those who laid claim to what the Kurds consider their land, are taking another run at asserting their dignity and sovereignty. On Sunday, the Kurds shut off oil exports and accused Baghdad of failing to pay companies working in what is currently called the "autonomous region" of Kurdistan. "Autonomous," of course, is not the same as being free-standing. Oil being what oil is, the potential for a whizzing-bullet future gains impetus. Kurdistan says it has the power to control oil. Baghdad, and the rest of the world hungry for Kurdistan's black gold, disagrees ... and is probably willing to reassert its view of Kurdish second-class citizenship.
.
the only koan
.
Dancing like a couple of woodland elves into my mind....
-- The (isn't it nifty, the word 'the'?) pivotal, central and only disquiet in anyone's life -- the sole and singular koan or insoluble riddle -- is this: Intellect and emotion, the characteristics habitually accepted as defining what it is to be a human being, are utterly dependent on the past. Whatever their swelling harmonies and complexities, these two characteristics simply have no force or meaning without harking back to some earlier time. This is not an intellectual argument ... each (wo)man can check it out for him- or herself.
We rely on the past for what is commonly called humanity. A vast, vast, vast collection ... humanity with all its foibles and fierceness and kind ministrations.
We rely on the past and yet we live in a present that cannot be escaped or explained or loved. What is called the present is as obvious as reading this word, as plain and direct as a spider web on the lawn, as ordinary as sunrise, as unadorned as a bathroom towel.
When it comes to the present, everyone knows and only later talks about it or loves it or hates it or waxes wise about it. A car is not a "car" but it is a car. Love is not "love" but it is love. What is called the present is instantaneous ... all the time. It has the sex-appeal of wet cardboard because ... well, perhaps because it is so utterly d'oh. As intellectually close as anyone might get to the "present" -- spiritual feel-good books to the contrary notwithstanding -- is the U.S. Supreme Court justice's approximate observation about pornography: "I may not know what it is, but I know it when I see it." The reality, of course, is much more in your face, much closer ... see-ing, hear-ing, smell-ing, tast-ing, touch-ing, feel-ing, think-ing ... bang! that's it! ... until of course our humanity kicks in and we lay claim to a peace of mind through our thinking and feeling ... the stuff that relies on what is no longer see-ing, hear-ing, smell-ing, tast-ing, touch-ing, feel-ing, think-ing.
And it is in this separation between relying on the past but living in the present that forms the basis of uncertainty and unsatisfactoriness -- what Buddhists call "suffering" -- in a very human life. No one needs to be a Buddhist to recognize this chafing, nagging reality ... rely on the past with no means of making peace with what is right in front of our eyes ... the d'oh stuff, the present that can neither be named nor escaped. How is anyone supposed to close this all-too-human gap?
It's really pretty simple, this nagging question: How to make peace between relying on the past but living -- d'oh -- in the present. This nagging suspicion or certainty is so simple and so confounding ... but it is only confoundingly simple according to the willingness to address and investigate the problem honestly. Some will prefer to sink back into an intellectual and emotional compromise -- if everybody else is relying on the past for their peace and tranquility, why shouldn't I? "Lookit me, Ma! I'm happy and at peace!" Or, alternatively, "Lookit me Ma! I'm desperate and depressed ... and can claim a place at the table that is called "human!" To investigate and address that humanity, to question the reliability of the past ... well, that's not quite human, is it? Let's play a game of let's-pretend ... and pretend that relying on the past is the only game in town.
Relying on the past with my entirely-human intellect and emotion ... and yet faced, moment after moment, with the dog shit or delight that comes unbidden with something called "the present." The nag is so ordinary that, well, what the hell, that must be the nature of human existence, the nature of my existence. I guess I'm stuck with the farm. What else could there possibly be besides my utterly human characteristics of intellect and emotion? But the intellectual or emotional observation that I am stuck with the farm fails miserably in one regard: It doesn't put this nagging koan to bed: Living in the past/confronted by the present. Unsatisfactoriness. Suffering. Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!!!!!
It's such a simple koan, such a simple question: Living in the past/Living in the present. And the worst of it is probably the fact that no one -- no one ever -- can bring peace to this simple scenario for you. It's all on you. It's entirely your business. Another occasion to rail, shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits! Buddhism, Christianity, scientology, EST, yoga, new shoes ... it's all tits on a bull: This is your problem and mine, assuming we choose to address it: Relying on the past (and being utterly human) in inescapable tandem with a present which we cannot define and yet know without any doubt whatsoever (computer keyboard, sunshine, daffodils, bad breath, coffee ....) is so ... goddamned... d'oh.
Simple, simpler, simplest: Are you willing to make peace or is the war just too damned delightful and safe? There is no 'right' answer, but there is your answer. I don't know about you, but I hate getting nagged. I hate living a safety-net, 95% life in which I imagine something could be held back when clearly nothing is ever held back. How many lives can anyone actually live? Completeness is as plain as the nose on my face and here I sit, diddling with fractions. Bleah!
Simple, simpler, simplest. And yet ...
-- Here comes the follow-on thought...
Isn't it peculiar how anyone might demand a simple explanation and yet the minute that simple explanation is delivered, complexity is demanded with equal fervor? Yes-but rears up like some evil sister. "I see what you mean, but it's not quite 'me.' I am so full of intellect and emotion that is utterly unique and could not possibly fit under one, single, simple umbrella." Please make what is simple complex for me. Libraries and lecture halls are full of this spoken and unspoken desire. Tell me the answer in one syllable words and when the one-syllable words are delivered, well, it's off to the polysyllabic races.
It's all human and it's nothing to write home about. No point in chastising a blind man for being blind. No point in imagining that awake is better than asleep. That's just more of the same 95% lifestyle. Blind is blind. Asleep is asleep. Awake is awake. If you want to make peace, make peace. If you're enjoying the war, just enjoy it.
Since human beings all have their internal nags, their own ways of recognizing the disconnect between past and present, there really is no need to nag anyone else with words like "compassion" and "enlightenment" and "love" and "emptiness" and "suffering" and "before" and "after." It may be circle-jerk comforting to come together in one collective nag or another, but individuals really are quite capable of a completeness that knows no nags. Buddhists in their complexities may refer to the wondrousness of Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. Non-Buddhists may fill bookshelves with wondrous testaments to the "present moment," a wondrous something-or-other. It's all just another nag.
But the wondrousness, while plain as salt, is kind of nifty.
Nag all you like -- the wondrousness doesn't mind.
.
Dancing like a couple of woodland elves into my mind....
-- The (isn't it nifty, the word 'the'?) pivotal, central and only disquiet in anyone's life -- the sole and singular koan or insoluble riddle -- is this: Intellect and emotion, the characteristics habitually accepted as defining what it is to be a human being, are utterly dependent on the past. Whatever their swelling harmonies and complexities, these two characteristics simply have no force or meaning without harking back to some earlier time. This is not an intellectual argument ... each (wo)man can check it out for him- or herself.
We rely on the past for what is commonly called humanity. A vast, vast, vast collection ... humanity with all its foibles and fierceness and kind ministrations.
We rely on the past and yet we live in a present that cannot be escaped or explained or loved. What is called the present is as obvious as reading this word, as plain and direct as a spider web on the lawn, as ordinary as sunrise, as unadorned as a bathroom towel.When it comes to the present, everyone knows and only later talks about it or loves it or hates it or waxes wise about it. A car is not a "car" but it is a car. Love is not "love" but it is love. What is called the present is instantaneous ... all the time. It has the sex-appeal of wet cardboard because ... well, perhaps because it is so utterly d'oh. As intellectually close as anyone might get to the "present" -- spiritual feel-good books to the contrary notwithstanding -- is the U.S. Supreme Court justice's approximate observation about pornography: "I may not know what it is, but I know it when I see it." The reality, of course, is much more in your face, much closer ... see-ing, hear-ing, smell-ing, tast-ing, touch-ing, feel-ing, think-ing ... bang! that's it! ... until of course our humanity kicks in and we lay claim to a peace of mind through our thinking and feeling ... the stuff that relies on what is no longer see-ing, hear-ing, smell-ing, tast-ing, touch-ing, feel-ing, think-ing.
And it is in this separation between relying on the past but living in the present that forms the basis of uncertainty and unsatisfactoriness -- what Buddhists call "suffering" -- in a very human life. No one needs to be a Buddhist to recognize this chafing, nagging reality ... rely on the past with no means of making peace with what is right in front of our eyes ... the d'oh stuff, the present that can neither be named nor escaped. How is anyone supposed to close this all-too-human gap?
It's really pretty simple, this nagging question: How to make peace between relying on the past but living -- d'oh -- in the present. This nagging suspicion or certainty is so simple and so confounding ... but it is only confoundingly simple according to the willingness to address and investigate the problem honestly. Some will prefer to sink back into an intellectual and emotional compromise -- if everybody else is relying on the past for their peace and tranquility, why shouldn't I? "Lookit me, Ma! I'm happy and at peace!" Or, alternatively, "Lookit me Ma! I'm desperate and depressed ... and can claim a place at the table that is called "human!" To investigate and address that humanity, to question the reliability of the past ... well, that's not quite human, is it? Let's play a game of let's-pretend ... and pretend that relying on the past is the only game in town.
Relying on the past with my entirely-human intellect and emotion ... and yet faced, moment after moment, with the dog shit or delight that comes unbidden with something called "the present." The nag is so ordinary that, well, what the hell, that must be the nature of human existence, the nature of my existence. I guess I'm stuck with the farm. What else could there possibly be besides my utterly human characteristics of intellect and emotion? But the intellectual or emotional observation that I am stuck with the farm fails miserably in one regard: It doesn't put this nagging koan to bed: Living in the past/confronted by the present. Unsatisfactoriness. Suffering. Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!!!!!
It's such a simple koan, such a simple question: Living in the past/Living in the present. And the worst of it is probably the fact that no one -- no one ever -- can bring peace to this simple scenario for you. It's all on you. It's entirely your business. Another occasion to rail, shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits! Buddhism, Christianity, scientology, EST, yoga, new shoes ... it's all tits on a bull: This is your problem and mine, assuming we choose to address it: Relying on the past (and being utterly human) in inescapable tandem with a present which we cannot define and yet know without any doubt whatsoever (computer keyboard, sunshine, daffodils, bad breath, coffee ....) is so ... goddamned... d'oh.
Simple, simpler, simplest: Are you willing to make peace or is the war just too damned delightful and safe? There is no 'right' answer, but there is your answer. I don't know about you, but I hate getting nagged. I hate living a safety-net, 95% life in which I imagine something could be held back when clearly nothing is ever held back. How many lives can anyone actually live? Completeness is as plain as the nose on my face and here I sit, diddling with fractions. Bleah!
Simple, simpler, simplest. And yet ...
-- Here comes the follow-on thought...
Isn't it peculiar how anyone might demand a simple explanation and yet the minute that simple explanation is delivered, complexity is demanded with equal fervor? Yes-but rears up like some evil sister. "I see what you mean, but it's not quite 'me.' I am so full of intellect and emotion that is utterly unique and could not possibly fit under one, single, simple umbrella." Please make what is simple complex for me. Libraries and lecture halls are full of this spoken and unspoken desire. Tell me the answer in one syllable words and when the one-syllable words are delivered, well, it's off to the polysyllabic races.
It's all human and it's nothing to write home about. No point in chastising a blind man for being blind. No point in imagining that awake is better than asleep. That's just more of the same 95% lifestyle. Blind is blind. Asleep is asleep. Awake is awake. If you want to make peace, make peace. If you're enjoying the war, just enjoy it.
Since human beings all have their internal nags, their own ways of recognizing the disconnect between past and present, there really is no need to nag anyone else with words like "compassion" and "enlightenment" and "love" and "emptiness" and "suffering" and "before" and "after." It may be circle-jerk comforting to come together in one collective nag or another, but individuals really are quite capable of a completeness that knows no nags. Buddhists in their complexities may refer to the wondrousness of Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. Non-Buddhists may fill bookshelves with wondrous testaments to the "present moment," a wondrous something-or-other. It's all just another nag.
But the wondrousness, while plain as salt, is kind of nifty.
Nag all you like -- the wondrousness doesn't mind.
.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
clarity 'and' compassion
.
As a practical matter -- a matter of practice -- clarity and understanding invariably necessitate kindness and compassion. This is not a choice or a matter of fabrication.
As a practical matter -- a matter of practice -- kindness and compassion invariably necessitate clarity and understanding. This is not a choice or a matter of fabrication.
From this we may know the such things as clarity, understanding, kindness and compassion are not, as a matter of practice, separate entities. Those who speak glowingly of compassion or praise clear understanding are either looking for money or offering half-baked and simpering nostrums.
As a practical matter -- a matter of practice -- it is better to practice than to sip such lifeless dregs.
.
As a practical matter -- a matter of practice -- clarity and understanding invariably necessitate kindness and compassion. This is not a choice or a matter of fabrication.
As a practical matter -- a matter of practice -- kindness and compassion invariably necessitate clarity and understanding. This is not a choice or a matter of fabrication.
From this we may know the such things as clarity, understanding, kindness and compassion are not, as a matter of practice, separate entities. Those who speak glowingly of compassion or praise clear understanding are either looking for money or offering half-baked and simpering nostrums.
As a practical matter -- a matter of practice -- it is better to practice than to sip such lifeless dregs.
.
hurry up and fail!
.
Perhaps the human mind is just hard-wired that way ...
Conceive of a goal, any goal, and the mind, because it conceived of the goal in lickety-split fashion, imagines that that goal can be achieved with an equal speed. There is a sense of inadequacy that can set in when the patient, determined steps required for actually achieving the goal become apparent. Success comes in a nanosecond ... until anyone tries it. Money, college degrees, spiritual longings ... same stuff, different day. Hope and belief are called in to mitigate the sense of inadequacy, but ... still Rome wasn't built in a day. The mind has its wiles and will not be denied.
One day, when I was a kid, I was skiing on a public slope. I loved going to the top of the hill and then zipping down it at whatever break-neck speed I could attain. I was having a lot of fun. But at one point, after I had reclimbed the hill and was preparing for another rice-rocket run, a man I didn't know slid up next to me and said without preamble, "Any asshole can ski fast. It takes a good skiier to ski slow." I was conditioned to listen to adults. I was also not used to hearing them cuss in my presence. The cuss word combined with the fact that I did not know this person served to sink his advice into me.
For the rest of the day, I practiced skiing slowly. It was hard work and I fell down more times than I ever had during my earlier zippy descents.
I never talked to the man again and I never became a really good skiier, but I tried.
Funny how, the more you climb the daunting peak, the less daunting it becomes, until, at last, you wonder what stupid 'peak' you were talking about in the first place.
Sorta like Zen practice.
.
Perhaps the human mind is just hard-wired that way ...
Conceive of a goal, any goal, and the mind, because it conceived of the goal in lickety-split fashion, imagines that that goal can be achieved with an equal speed. There is a sense of inadequacy that can set in when the patient, determined steps required for actually achieving the goal become apparent. Success comes in a nanosecond ... until anyone tries it. Money, college degrees, spiritual longings ... same stuff, different day. Hope and belief are called in to mitigate the sense of inadequacy, but ... still Rome wasn't built in a day. The mind has its wiles and will not be denied.
One day, when I was a kid, I was skiing on a public slope. I loved going to the top of the hill and then zipping down it at whatever break-neck speed I could attain. I was having a lot of fun. But at one point, after I had reclimbed the hill and was preparing for another rice-rocket run, a man I didn't know slid up next to me and said without preamble, "Any asshole can ski fast. It takes a good skiier to ski slow." I was conditioned to listen to adults. I was also not used to hearing them cuss in my presence. The cuss word combined with the fact that I did not know this person served to sink his advice into me.
For the rest of the day, I practiced skiing slowly. It was hard work and I fell down more times than I ever had during my earlier zippy descents.
I never talked to the man again and I never became a really good skiier, but I tried.
Funny how, the more you climb the daunting peak, the less daunting it becomes, until, at last, you wonder what stupid 'peak' you were talking about in the first place.
Sorta like Zen practice.
.
the Panama Canal
.
Last night I got hooked on watching a documentary about the building of the Panama Canal, a 50-mile-long, man-made link between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. At a ballpark cost of $14.3 billion (in 2007 dollars) and a grossly underestimated 6,000 lives, the canal was an engineering marvel that got its liftoff from the flamboyant U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt but attained orbit under the stewardship of President William Howard Taft. After the French failed during the 1880's in their attempt to build the canal, the can-do Americans took over and, after 10 years of back-breaking work, logistical nightmares, and debilitating and sometimes fatal disease, opened the locks to oceanic traffic in 1914. In order to accomplish the decade-long task, the U.S. had had to create an entire country -- Panama -- by the thinly-veiled wresting of control of right-of-way from Colombia.
Engraved on a plaque in Washington are the words that may sum up Teddy Roosevelt's appreciation of the effort required to create the Panama Canal:
.
Last night I got hooked on watching a documentary about the building of the Panama Canal, a 50-mile-long, man-made link between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. At a ballpark cost of $14.3 billion (in 2007 dollars) and a grossly underestimated 6,000 lives, the canal was an engineering marvel that got its liftoff from the flamboyant U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt but attained orbit under the stewardship of President William Howard Taft. After the French failed during the 1880's in their attempt to build the canal, the can-do Americans took over and, after 10 years of back-breaking work, logistical nightmares, and debilitating and sometimes fatal disease, opened the locks to oceanic traffic in 1914. In order to accomplish the decade-long task, the U.S. had had to create an entire country -- Panama -- by the thinly-veiled wresting of control of right-of-way from Colombia.
Engraved on a plaque in Washington are the words that may sum up Teddy Roosevelt's appreciation of the effort required to create the Panama Canal:
It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.For all the political posturing, I imagine Roosevelt was right: Better to fail at what anyone honestly loves than to succeed at what they merely fear or hate. No need for engineering marvels, no need for accolades that echo down the ages ... just the need to exercise love, sweat and perseverance.
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Tuesday, April 3, 2012
"Jiro Dreams of Sushi"
.
This is a movie I would like to see: Jiro Dreams of Sushi.
It just makes the heart soar to be in the presence of anyone who loves what s/he does ... even if it's just in a movie.
I don't like sushi, but the movie looks delicious.
.
This is a movie I would like to see: Jiro Dreams of Sushi.
It just makes the heart soar to be in the presence of anyone who loves what s/he does ... even if it's just in a movie.
I don't like sushi, but the movie looks delicious.
.
economic bright lights
.
Economically, things are looking better in the U.S. Car sales are up. Inventories are being replenished. And people are spending. It may not be a perfect scenario just yet, but even a candle is welcome in a dark tunnel.
Of course everything is now more expensive, so greater spending is to be expected. Brent oil is running around $125 per barrel and prices at the gas pump are scrambling towards the $4 per gallon mark. Companies are now routinely buying other companies for billions (rather than millions) of dollars. It makes me wonder if the bright picture isn't being artificially brightened ... a kind of economic Photoshop. No one has changed the fundamentals of the banking industry that pushed the world over the edge in 2008. Now the very culprits -- Goldman Sachs, for example -- are back in the saddle, handing out sound financial advice. Ditto Standard and Poors, Moody's and the rest of the rating agencies whose income was derived partly from the stocks they 'rated.'
In Washington, the managing director of the International Monetary Fund, Christine Lagarde warned her audience Tuesday that whatever recovery was afoot worldwide was still on very shaky ground. "We should not delude ourselves into a false sense of security," she said.
As if to put meat on that bone, an Associated Press story points out that the more than $1 trillion in accumulated U.S. student debt could easily become the next elephant in the living room -- one capable of trampling even the most optimistic projections. Where are former students who cannot find jobs supposed to find the money to pay off the loans they deferred in order to get a college education? Maybe from mom and dad ... but mom and dad may be living on fixed incomes and be unhappy to learn that they too can be impoverished. Well, if mom and dad can't pony up, there's always the federal government: Eight out of 10 student loans are issued or guaranteed by the federal government. Currently, three in ten student loans have past-due balances. Which could leave Uncle Sam on the hook if grads Sally and Peter default.
Economically, things are looking better in the U.S. Car sales are up. Inventories are being replenished. And people are spending. It may not be a perfect scenario just yet, but even a candle is welcome in a dark tunnel.
Of course everything is now more expensive, so greater spending is to be expected. Brent oil is running around $125 per barrel and prices at the gas pump are scrambling towards the $4 per gallon mark. Companies are now routinely buying other companies for billions (rather than millions) of dollars. It makes me wonder if the bright picture isn't being artificially brightened ... a kind of economic Photoshop. No one has changed the fundamentals of the banking industry that pushed the world over the edge in 2008. Now the very culprits -- Goldman Sachs, for example -- are back in the saddle, handing out sound financial advice. Ditto Standard and Poors, Moody's and the rest of the rating agencies whose income was derived partly from the stocks they 'rated.'
In Washington, the managing director of the International Monetary Fund, Christine Lagarde warned her audience Tuesday that whatever recovery was afoot worldwide was still on very shaky ground. "We should not delude ourselves into a false sense of security," she said.
As if to put meat on that bone, an Associated Press story points out that the more than $1 trillion in accumulated U.S. student debt could easily become the next elephant in the living room -- one capable of trampling even the most optimistic projections. Where are former students who cannot find jobs supposed to find the money to pay off the loans they deferred in order to get a college education? Maybe from mom and dad ... but mom and dad may be living on fixed incomes and be unhappy to learn that they too can be impoverished. Well, if mom and dad can't pony up, there's always the federal government: Eight out of 10 student loans are issued or guaranteed by the federal government. Currently, three in ten student loans have past-due balances. Which could leave Uncle Sam on the hook if grads Sally and Peter default.
.Nigel Gault, chief U.S. economist at IHS Global Insight, said the student loan crisis may not torpedo the financial sector as the mortgage meltdown nearly did in 2008, but it could slam taxpayers and the still-ailing housing market.
get over yourself
.
In the infinite deck of cards that might be called human wisdom, which, of all the cards, might be called the joker -- the one card that fits with and improves any other card?
If I had to guess, my guess would be this: Get over yourself.
This is easier said than done, of course, and yet examples are all around us all the time. Birds, trees, sunsets, Chevrolets, shoe laces, coffee pots, book shelves, housing projects, dogs, cats ... and on and on. None exudes self. Each simply is self.
Get over yourself.
Just be yourself.
.
In the infinite deck of cards that might be called human wisdom, which, of all the cards, might be called the joker -- the one card that fits with and improves any other card?
If I had to guess, my guess would be this: Get over yourself.
This is easier said than done, of course, and yet examples are all around us all the time. Birds, trees, sunsets, Chevrolets, shoe laces, coffee pots, book shelves, housing projects, dogs, cats ... and on and on. None exudes self. Each simply is self.
Get over yourself.
Just be yourself.
.
newspaper submission
.
I spent the early (writing) hours sounding off on a topic I subsequently shipped off to the newspaper for consideration as a column. Since I doubt that the column will make the cut and since I like to write something each day, I'll cop out and save it here:
I spent the early (writing) hours sounding off on a topic I subsequently shipped off to the newspaper for consideration as a column. Since I doubt that the column will make the cut and since I like to write something each day, I'll cop out and save it here:
A recent email from my friend Frank, a former New York City high school teacher, was positively exploding with exasperated disbelief: New York wasn't Alabama, for heaven's sake!
And yet here was the largest school system in the United States of America proposing to take political correctness (under cover of 'caring about kids') to new, idiotic and gob-stopping heights. The proposal was Orwellian: Keep the kids dumber in order to make them smarter.
I gave Frank the most level-headed answer I could come up with: Any time you think New York is not Alabama -- any time you think your school system is above the nonsense of life -- it's time to look in the mirror and check your own most self-congratulatory principles.
With its 1,042,277 students as of 2006, what New York's school district is suggesting is that certain words should be excised from student tests. These are words that might upset either the students themselves or their sensitive parents -- some of whom might have political clout.
"Dinosaur" made the list because it suggests an evolution that creationists might find offensive. "Halloween" suggests paganism. And Jehovah's Witnesses don't celebrate "birthdays." "Poverty" carries an implication of wealth and might make kids jealous. "Divorce" and "disease" could unduly upset those whose kin have either parted ways or been ill.
There are about 50 words in all that New York has asked test-makers to avoid or excise, according to a March 26 CBS report. They include "abuse," "bodily functions," "cancer," "computers" (in the home), "alcohol," "crime," "death and disease," "homelessness," "junk food," "children dealing with serious issues," "natural disasters," "hunting," "loss of employment," "nuclear weapons," "parapsychology," "poverty," "religion, "rap music," "evolution," "sex," "slavery," "terrorism," "weapons," "war," and "running away."
After an initial explosion of outrage and incredulity that a system dedicated to education might even make such a ludicrous suggestion, I think all of this provides a good opportunity to recognize that outrage, while delicious, is not really enough.
Educators, when they're any good, are in the business of upsetting mental apple carts. It is they who provide the information that will expand the minds of those who may currently believe that video games and sexual adventure represent the far reaches of the universe.
School may be boooorrrrring, but maybe a history of yaks or the make-up of an atom or a manual on car-repair or a discussion of why bad things happen to good people will expand the known universe. Educators create the universe and then, when they're any good, provide the tools for knowing that the edge of the universe is still miles away. Educators don't skirt reality, they offer optional versions of it, versions that are constantly revised and rethought according to the willingness and ability of the thinker.
If this framework is true, then the proposals in New York fly in the face of anything that might be called education. But the trouble with frameworks is that they can never adequately capture the varieties of what it is to be human. Human beings are more interesting than their philosophies. And it is within that framework that educators extend kindness to their charges -- withholding what might be too complex (and hence unkind under current circumstances). And sometimes their kindness is stretched to the breaking point when they are asked to fill a role that parents cannot or will not or do not.
But kindness and political correctness are subtle and sometimes cruel masters. At what point does kindness ("good jobbbbb!") and political correctness (don't use the N word or drop the F bomb) fly in the face of a reality that is all too obvious in an after-school environment? Educators are forced to thread such needles all the time, just like the rest of us. For those who walk the walk, the line between what is kind and what is unkind, what is smart and what is dumb is truly a razor's edge.
It is possible to carry kindness to unkind extremes just as it is possible to carry the political correctness of social agreements to ludicrous lengths. The person who can use the word "stupid" is axiomatically asserting a capacity to be "smart."
My own view is that being smart is better than being dumb.
But it is also my view that being smart entails recognizing precisely how dumb "smart" can be.
And the same goes for "kindness."
To use Frank's geographical distinctions, we may all live in "New York," but it behooves us to remember our capacity to live in "Alabama."
P.S. On April 2, the New York Department of Education dropped its request that certain words be excised from student tests. Parental reaction was cited. The fact that the department might even consider such a proposal is still instructive.
.
P.S. On April 2, the New York Department of Education dropped its request that certain words be excised from student tests. Parental reaction was cited. The fact that the department might even consider such a proposal is still instructive.
.
Monday, April 2, 2012
getting my Christian chain yanked
.
The older I get, the more I seem to take my spiritual training from movies. Not 'spiritual' movies, just ordinary adventures. In this, perhaps I am not far from my sons who seem to read "The Godfather" after having seen the movie ... and found it a great book. I too like "The Godfather." And I like "Open Range." And I like "Second-Hand Lions." And I like "The Cup." Besides being good stories, all have information worth savoring ... at least in this aging mind.
Today, as I was dawdling around after lunch, I came upon "Stigmata" on the TV. Described as a "horror" film by some, I think it was more like good sci-fi ... horror movies scare me too much. In the movie, a young woman in Pittsburgh exhibits over time the wounds Jesus was said to have suffered. She proclaims herself an atheist, but that doesn't stop the wounds from wounding her. There is some nice, quiet tension between the woman (a hairdresser) and the priest (Gabriel Byrne) who comes to investigate and it's not (thankfully) entirely clear whether she is possessed by some demon or by something holy. The movie ends somewhat unclearly, but I liked the drama well enough to watch.
And that led me to look up the Gospel of Thomas -- a gospel not included with Matthew, Mark, Luke and John in the Bible. The Thomas work differs from the other gospels in that it is not narrative in structure. It is more like a collection of sayings attributed directly to Jesus ... or maybe not ... there is a lot of argument about its place in the Christian narrative. Maybe this, maybe that ... but as I read over even so thin a source as Wikipedia, I found myself applauding for the Christians instead of the lions. The heresies of Thomas -- if heresies they be -- speak in a way that anyone familiar with the age-old orthodoxy-vs-mystic argument will find pretty ho-hum.
But it had been a long time since I heard/read of anyone standing up for "direct and unmediated experience." And it was a pleasure to read the suggestion that prayer and grace -- the touchstones of Christian orthodoxy -- were really not enough, that there was another way, a way of insight in which "... the hearer's attention is directed away from objectified judgements of the world to knowing oneself in direct and straighforward manner ...." The Thomas Gospel is refrained to some extent in other gospels (John for example), but this one seems to have really hammer home the point of the movie -- churches are not the church worth attending.
Watching the movie ... going to a flimsy source ... and feeling both delighted and sheepish. Delighted because I live in a Christian country whose Christianity, sometimes nice and sometimes nasty, seldom reaches out to the church that anybody might seek ... and here was some counterpoint to my skeptical views. And sheepish because all too often -- but not without reason -- I can rest my head on that skeptical pillow.
I like having my chain yanked.
I guess I'll watch more movies.
.
The older I get, the more I seem to take my spiritual training from movies. Not 'spiritual' movies, just ordinary adventures. In this, perhaps I am not far from my sons who seem to read "The Godfather" after having seen the movie ... and found it a great book. I too like "The Godfather." And I like "Open Range." And I like "Second-Hand Lions." And I like "The Cup." Besides being good stories, all have information worth savoring ... at least in this aging mind.
Today, as I was dawdling around after lunch, I came upon "Stigmata" on the TV. Described as a "horror" film by some, I think it was more like good sci-fi ... horror movies scare me too much. In the movie, a young woman in Pittsburgh exhibits over time the wounds Jesus was said to have suffered. She proclaims herself an atheist, but that doesn't stop the wounds from wounding her. There is some nice, quiet tension between the woman (a hairdresser) and the priest (Gabriel Byrne) who comes to investigate and it's not (thankfully) entirely clear whether she is possessed by some demon or by something holy. The movie ends somewhat unclearly, but I liked the drama well enough to watch.
And that led me to look up the Gospel of Thomas -- a gospel not included with Matthew, Mark, Luke and John in the Bible. The Thomas work differs from the other gospels in that it is not narrative in structure. It is more like a collection of sayings attributed directly to Jesus ... or maybe not ... there is a lot of argument about its place in the Christian narrative. Maybe this, maybe that ... but as I read over even so thin a source as Wikipedia, I found myself applauding for the Christians instead of the lions. The heresies of Thomas -- if heresies they be -- speak in a way that anyone familiar with the age-old orthodoxy-vs-mystic argument will find pretty ho-hum.
But it had been a long time since I heard/read of anyone standing up for "direct and unmediated experience." And it was a pleasure to read the suggestion that prayer and grace -- the touchstones of Christian orthodoxy -- were really not enough, that there was another way, a way of insight in which "... the hearer's attention is directed away from objectified judgements of the world to knowing oneself in direct and straighforward manner ...." The Thomas Gospel is refrained to some extent in other gospels (John for example), but this one seems to have really hammer home the point of the movie -- churches are not the church worth attending.
Watching the movie ... going to a flimsy source ... and feeling both delighted and sheepish. Delighted because I live in a Christian country whose Christianity, sometimes nice and sometimes nasty, seldom reaches out to the church that anybody might seek ... and here was some counterpoint to my skeptical views. And sheepish because all too often -- but not without reason -- I can rest my head on that skeptical pillow.
I like having my chain yanked.
I guess I'll watch more movies.
.
what is it that pisses zombies off?
.
Except for the fact that it is scary and 'scary' is somehow fun, I can't quite get the premise of a TV serial called "The Walking Dead." I only see snippets as I switch channels, but the series seems to be premised on a lot of make-up and some notion that zombies are on the loose and those who are living need to defend themselves.
Zombies seem to be driven -- angry as hell about the fact that others are alive -- to kill off the living. Why they should be so pissed off, I'm not quite sure. Do they simply want more company? They certainly seem to have a lot of company already, if the show's premise and depiction are reasonable within the given story line. So what has these dead people who are alive so pissed off? Boredom? Jealousy? A need to succeed at others' expense? The desire for a good meal?
What is it that pisses zombies off?
I like stories that are consistent within their own frameworks, but I'm damned if I can find the consistency within this (some would say deliciously) scary adventure.
I would be delighted if some zombie could enlighten me.
.
Except for the fact that it is scary and 'scary' is somehow fun, I can't quite get the premise of a TV serial called "The Walking Dead." I only see snippets as I switch channels, but the series seems to be premised on a lot of make-up and some notion that zombies are on the loose and those who are living need to defend themselves.
Zombies seem to be driven -- angry as hell about the fact that others are alive -- to kill off the living. Why they should be so pissed off, I'm not quite sure. Do they simply want more company? They certainly seem to have a lot of company already, if the show's premise and depiction are reasonable within the given story line. So what has these dead people who are alive so pissed off? Boredom? Jealousy? A need to succeed at others' expense? The desire for a good meal?
What is it that pisses zombies off?
I like stories that are consistent within their own frameworks, but I'm damned if I can find the consistency within this (some would say deliciously) scary adventure.
I would be delighted if some zombie could enlighten me.
.
crucifixion and resurrection
.
My wife told me that next Sunday is Easter.
Easter, by Christian reckoning, is a time of resurrection ... in their case, the resurrection of Jesus.
But it occurs to me that everyone, every day, suffers a crucifixion ... and an invariable resurrection. The Christian tale is pretty grisly and pretty hopeful but for the rest of us ... well, it's just what we do, isn't it?
Day by day, week by week, year by year, moment by moment ... crucified by a present we may have claimed to foresee, but never really did, and resurrected in the day or week or year or moment we could not possibly predict. Calling it grisly or hopeful is just an extra, an add-on, a tale worth telling because ... well, because I want to tell it.
When is there a time that is not a crucifixion?
When is there a day that is not Easter?
Drawing some line between crucifixion and resurrection is like taking a very sharp knife to the ocean's edge with the intention of cutting that ocean into digestible morsels.
.
My wife told me that next Sunday is Easter.
Easter, by Christian reckoning, is a time of resurrection ... in their case, the resurrection of Jesus.
But it occurs to me that everyone, every day, suffers a crucifixion ... and an invariable resurrection. The Christian tale is pretty grisly and pretty hopeful but for the rest of us ... well, it's just what we do, isn't it?
Day by day, week by week, year by year, moment by moment ... crucified by a present we may have claimed to foresee, but never really did, and resurrected in the day or week or year or moment we could not possibly predict. Calling it grisly or hopeful is just an extra, an add-on, a tale worth telling because ... well, because I want to tell it.
When is there a time that is not a crucifixion?
When is there a day that is not Easter?
Drawing some line between crucifixion and resurrection is like taking a very sharp knife to the ocean's edge with the intention of cutting that ocean into digestible morsels.
.
back to the (conservation) land
.
The part of the United States I live in is pocked with tracts of "conservation" land -- land granted a protected status in order to preserve its natural attributes. "Conservation" is a pastime for communities wealthy enough to reflect and see the deeper wonders and value of the land being preserved. In a sense, conserved land is a public response to the accusation that someone might "know the price of everything and the value of nothing."
Conservation, from one point of view, is a luxury.
But in hard times, when luxuries tend to be whittled away ... well, attitudes are revised.
In Amherst, a town perhaps 10 miles from here, the government has decided to offer up conservation land to tenant farmers. The price for licenses is $125 per acre. Licenses can be renewed and they can also be vacated. It's only six acres in question at the moment. The price seems far from onerous and yet....
Such an arrangement provides some -- if not a lot -- of income for the town. Income is hard to come by in hard times. Towns, like individuals, are scrambling to make ends meet. And so, it crosses my mind, we return to a medieval model -- one in which the lord allows the tenant farmer to till the soil and pay the taxes that go with that tilling. It's not yet sharecropping in which the farmer goes into unending debt by buying seed and renting shelter against the income his crops may generate ... but there is a whiff of earlier, more indentured times.
Where hungers of one kind or another rise up, the luxury of conservation loses its luster.
PS. For a wider view of new tilling on conservation soil, here is a report by Reuters.
.
The part of the United States I live in is pocked with tracts of "conservation" land -- land granted a protected status in order to preserve its natural attributes. "Conservation" is a pastime for communities wealthy enough to reflect and see the deeper wonders and value of the land being preserved. In a sense, conserved land is a public response to the accusation that someone might "know the price of everything and the value of nothing."
Conservation, from one point of view, is a luxury.
But in hard times, when luxuries tend to be whittled away ... well, attitudes are revised.
In Amherst, a town perhaps 10 miles from here, the government has decided to offer up conservation land to tenant farmers. The price for licenses is $125 per acre. Licenses can be renewed and they can also be vacated. It's only six acres in question at the moment. The price seems far from onerous and yet....
Such an arrangement provides some -- if not a lot -- of income for the town. Income is hard to come by in hard times. Towns, like individuals, are scrambling to make ends meet. And so, it crosses my mind, we return to a medieval model -- one in which the lord allows the tenant farmer to till the soil and pay the taxes that go with that tilling. It's not yet sharecropping in which the farmer goes into unending debt by buying seed and renting shelter against the income his crops may generate ... but there is a whiff of earlier, more indentured times.
Where hungers of one kind or another rise up, the luxury of conservation loses its luster.
PS. For a wider view of new tilling on conservation soil, here is a report by Reuters.
.
"idle hands are the devil's workshop"
.
In the triage that is called aging, it's easy to imagine that persuaded Christians had it partly right: "Idle hands are the devil's workshop" is a fortune-cookie phrase and encouragement whose origins cannot be nailed down and yet -- since it includes a presumably Christian devil -- seems to take nourishment from a Christian frame of reference.
How shall man know and express God? It is through man's good works that God can be known ... a suggestion that goes pretty far, but not quite far enough. And if I've got that Q and A right, then idle hands would tend to create a lot of evil -- the opposite (not the obvious and necessary complement) of God.
Conveniently, the phrase is also an industrialist's wet dream since to bring a religious or moral perspective to anything that will generate so much income has got to feel good.
In the triage that is called aging, the literal heavy-lifting that was possible in youth dwindles and fades. Mowing the lawn, cleaning out the cellar, loading the tractor-trailer, carrying 4x8 sheets of plywood, and helping little old ladies with the groceries ... well, the mind may be willing, but the 'hands' grow weak. What once could be done can no longer be done. And that leaves those who are aging with time on their hands.
And -- Nellie bar the gate! -- with time to be idle, one of the weed-strewn possibilities is the capacity to settle down to a large plate of being "right." If you can't do anything, then at least you can be right. Being right is not so heavy as a 4x8 piece of plywood. And more than that, it's both assertive and comforting. If you can't do something, at least you can be right ... which may account for why the elderly are sometimes very crabby.
Not that those whose hands aren't idle are any less prone to being right, but there are more intermissions for actually getting something done, some work, some indicator, for those inclined that way, to know God.
One of the strange aspects of doing anything is the capacity to forget about right and wrong. When engrossed in a project, from pounding a nail to painting a picture to sneezing or kissing, the fact is that right and wrong fall away. Only later do the philosophers and theologians and zombies go to work. This was a "good" thing or a "bad" thing -- a "right" thing or a "wrong" thing. In the midst of some busy-handed activity, there is just the activity. Past, present and future dissolve. Good and bad, God and devil, right and wrong are no where in sight. In the midst of doing, God may be known, but the things of the past (belief, assessment, hope, etc.) are set aside .... until, with the luxury of hindsight, someone calls them God's works... the eradication of the devil's workshop.
In the triage of aging, when the hands idle all by themselves, there is more time to live in the past, to eat stale food, and to be right.
To know God is only possible through the work at hand, by some estimates. It's not a bad estimate, but I think it lacks a completeness that would assure peace of mind.What it lacks is an answer to the question, "If God can only be known through man's works ... then what the hell does man know when he knows God?" To answer "more work" is theologically satisfying, perhaps, but hardly stills the uncertain heart. All that does is set up a hamster-in-a-treadmill fatalism ... which, when sprinkled the philosophical holy water, is deemed to be "all you need to know." This answer my meet the income needs of institutions, but it falls short of the human heart.
What is it that is known -- right now -- when matters of right and wrong, God and man, idle and working simply play no role? It may be pleasing to live in the past (belief, right and wrong, idle and working, etc.) because it is there that meaning and explanation find their nourishment. But are meaning and explanation enough to explain this very present, this place of work, this no-holds-barred sneeze?
Idle hands are the devil's workshop. Likewise they are God's playground. There is no harm in playing idle games, but wouldn't it be nice to know who's playing? To complete what is obvious? To stop putting nickels and dimes in someone else's plate?
It's simply not enough to rely on explanations -- to be old and crabby and right.
Who's playing this game?
Honestly!?
Really!
Don't ask me ... I'm just an old, crabby fart.
.
In the triage that is called aging, it's easy to imagine that persuaded Christians had it partly right: "Idle hands are the devil's workshop" is a fortune-cookie phrase and encouragement whose origins cannot be nailed down and yet -- since it includes a presumably Christian devil -- seems to take nourishment from a Christian frame of reference.
How shall man know and express God? It is through man's good works that God can be known ... a suggestion that goes pretty far, but not quite far enough. And if I've got that Q and A right, then idle hands would tend to create a lot of evil -- the opposite (not the obvious and necessary complement) of God.
Conveniently, the phrase is also an industrialist's wet dream since to bring a religious or moral perspective to anything that will generate so much income has got to feel good.
In the triage that is called aging, the literal heavy-lifting that was possible in youth dwindles and fades. Mowing the lawn, cleaning out the cellar, loading the tractor-trailer, carrying 4x8 sheets of plywood, and helping little old ladies with the groceries ... well, the mind may be willing, but the 'hands' grow weak. What once could be done can no longer be done. And that leaves those who are aging with time on their hands.
And -- Nellie bar the gate! -- with time to be idle, one of the weed-strewn possibilities is the capacity to settle down to a large plate of being "right." If you can't do anything, then at least you can be right. Being right is not so heavy as a 4x8 piece of plywood. And more than that, it's both assertive and comforting. If you can't do something, at least you can be right ... which may account for why the elderly are sometimes very crabby.
Not that those whose hands aren't idle are any less prone to being right, but there are more intermissions for actually getting something done, some work, some indicator, for those inclined that way, to know God.
One of the strange aspects of doing anything is the capacity to forget about right and wrong. When engrossed in a project, from pounding a nail to painting a picture to sneezing or kissing, the fact is that right and wrong fall away. Only later do the philosophers and theologians and zombies go to work. This was a "good" thing or a "bad" thing -- a "right" thing or a "wrong" thing. In the midst of some busy-handed activity, there is just the activity. Past, present and future dissolve. Good and bad, God and devil, right and wrong are no where in sight. In the midst of doing, God may be known, but the things of the past (belief, assessment, hope, etc.) are set aside .... until, with the luxury of hindsight, someone calls them God's works... the eradication of the devil's workshop.In the triage of aging, when the hands idle all by themselves, there is more time to live in the past, to eat stale food, and to be right.
To know God is only possible through the work at hand, by some estimates. It's not a bad estimate, but I think it lacks a completeness that would assure peace of mind.What it lacks is an answer to the question, "If God can only be known through man's works ... then what the hell does man know when he knows God?" To answer "more work" is theologically satisfying, perhaps, but hardly stills the uncertain heart. All that does is set up a hamster-in-a-treadmill fatalism ... which, when sprinkled the philosophical holy water, is deemed to be "all you need to know." This answer my meet the income needs of institutions, but it falls short of the human heart.
What is it that is known -- right now -- when matters of right and wrong, God and man, idle and working simply play no role? It may be pleasing to live in the past (belief, right and wrong, idle and working, etc.) because it is there that meaning and explanation find their nourishment. But are meaning and explanation enough to explain this very present, this place of work, this no-holds-barred sneeze?
Idle hands are the devil's workshop. Likewise they are God's playground. There is no harm in playing idle games, but wouldn't it be nice to know who's playing? To complete what is obvious? To stop putting nickels and dimes in someone else's plate?
It's simply not enough to rely on explanations -- to be old and crabby and right.
Who's playing this game?
Honestly!?
Really!
Don't ask me ... I'm just an old, crabby fart.
.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
nothing has changed...everything is changed
.
It must have been over 30 years ago that I bought the Kuan Yin statue I had fallen in love with in a store window. It was then, as it is today, black and many-armed and cost more than I really could afford in disposable income -- eighty bucks.
When I first got the statue home, I was a bit afraid of it. I was new to Zen Buddhist practice -- new and enthusiastic and a bit star-struck by the mysterious wonder I had sucked up like some vacuum cleaner gone mad. I put the statue on the mantle piece above what had been but was no longer a fire place in my New York City apartment and I took to touching it from time to time as a way of making friends ... making friends as I might with some uncertain dog that I imagined to have sharp teeth. Each of those many arms held an implement and no doubt those implements had some constructive or destructive meaning ... who was to say or know? I never did bother to find out. I just tried to make friends and be as easy as I might with a friend.
Time passed and the statue never changed much. Some of the black patina wore off and revealed what might or might not be brass or bronze below. And with the paint, some of my gee-whiz-Mr.-Wizard uncertainties wore off too. I went to the Zen center and sat, and got the drift of things a little and the awe tinged with fear (what if somehow, something stripped me truly naked?!) wore down as well.
I noticed all this when I went out to the zendo to sit this morning. I had built the place and in the building there was no awe, no fear, no doubts. Instead, there were banged fingers from pounding nails, splinters from the rough-cut lumber, angles and other difficulties to be unraveled. But once it was built, I felt some of the same uncertainty I had with the statue. What sort of presumptuous son-of-a-bitch builds a church in his backyard? Even knowing its myriad flaws, I was pleased with the outcome, but not yet friends with the result. It was an 'important' place, a 'special' place, a place that filched from a tradition I admired and still wasn't quite sure I belonged to, despite the 20-plus years of practice at the time.
But today, I was pleased to see my old friend in much the same way I would be pleased to run into an old friend on the street. It was warm and mostly clean. The statues were on the altar together with an incense burner and candle and water bowl. Just as when I had first finished it only now ... well nothing had changed and everything had changed. Changed softly and somehow naturally, like a maple leaf that tiptoes into spring, gathers its forces, turns a ruddy, solid green and greets the rain drops with a plop, plop, plop. The incense rose from the bowl as it always had, the candle flickered, and everything was snug as a bug in a rug. Like old friends, sitting on a park bench, silent, but with shoulders touching easily ... nothing had changed and yet everything was changed.
How nice to have old friends, to breathe the same air, smile at the same jokes, and wonder why it was that what once had been wondrous was now just wonderful.
.
It must have been over 30 years ago that I bought the Kuan Yin statue I had fallen in love with in a store window. It was then, as it is today, black and many-armed and cost more than I really could afford in disposable income -- eighty bucks.
When I first got the statue home, I was a bit afraid of it. I was new to Zen Buddhist practice -- new and enthusiastic and a bit star-struck by the mysterious wonder I had sucked up like some vacuum cleaner gone mad. I put the statue on the mantle piece above what had been but was no longer a fire place in my New York City apartment and I took to touching it from time to time as a way of making friends ... making friends as I might with some uncertain dog that I imagined to have sharp teeth. Each of those many arms held an implement and no doubt those implements had some constructive or destructive meaning ... who was to say or know? I never did bother to find out. I just tried to make friends and be as easy as I might with a friend.Time passed and the statue never changed much. Some of the black patina wore off and revealed what might or might not be brass or bronze below. And with the paint, some of my gee-whiz-Mr.-Wizard uncertainties wore off too. I went to the Zen center and sat, and got the drift of things a little and the awe tinged with fear (what if somehow, something stripped me truly naked?!) wore down as well.
I noticed all this when I went out to the zendo to sit this morning. I had built the place and in the building there was no awe, no fear, no doubts. Instead, there were banged fingers from pounding nails, splinters from the rough-cut lumber, angles and other difficulties to be unraveled. But once it was built, I felt some of the same uncertainty I had with the statue. What sort of presumptuous son-of-a-bitch builds a church in his backyard? Even knowing its myriad flaws, I was pleased with the outcome, but not yet friends with the result. It was an 'important' place, a 'special' place, a place that filched from a tradition I admired and still wasn't quite sure I belonged to, despite the 20-plus years of practice at the time.But today, I was pleased to see my old friend in much the same way I would be pleased to run into an old friend on the street. It was warm and mostly clean. The statues were on the altar together with an incense burner and candle and water bowl. Just as when I had first finished it only now ... well nothing had changed and everything had changed. Changed softly and somehow naturally, like a maple leaf that tiptoes into spring, gathers its forces, turns a ruddy, solid green and greets the rain drops with a plop, plop, plop. The incense rose from the bowl as it always had, the candle flickered, and everything was snug as a bug in a rug. Like old friends, sitting on a park bench, silent, but with shoulders touching easily ... nothing had changed and yet everything was changed.
How nice to have old friends, to breathe the same air, smile at the same jokes, and wonder why it was that what once had been wondrous was now just wonderful.
.
when life serves up lemons ....
.
-- In Ireland, groups fed up with abandoned housing projects have taken to planting flowers and trees as an act of guerrilla rebellion. Lemons to lemonade in a small way.
-- But in Sana'a, the capital of Yemen, there is a real prospect that the city will run out of water due to development and a willingness to let all and sundry tap into a nourishing aquifer. Sometimes lemons turn to lemonade. Sometimes lemonade turns into lemons.
.
-- In Ireland, groups fed up with abandoned housing projects have taken to planting flowers and trees as an act of guerrilla rebellion. Lemons to lemonade in a small way.
-- But in Sana'a, the capital of Yemen, there is a real prospect that the city will run out of water due to development and a willingness to let all and sundry tap into a nourishing aquifer. Sometimes lemons turn to lemonade. Sometimes lemonade turns into lemons.
.
consolation
.
Is there anyone, in little or large ways, who does not long for consolation? "Consolation" is defined briefly on the Internet as "something that makes you feel less unhappy or disappointed."
Consolation is much-elevated among religions, which, of course, are in the consolation business. But even those who could give a fig about religion still find themselves in need of consolation. Deep down or in the shallows, how I would love to be consoled... don't I deserve it?
And when, over time, the consolations of this life fail to appear, there may be an easy-peasy bitterness that can arise ... a bitterness that, too, longs for consolation. Consolation casts a pretty wide net.
But together with this very-human attribute -- an attribute not to be scoffed at or held at bay philosophically -- what would things be like in a world where consolation were not necessary?
How would that be for a consolation prize?
.
Is there anyone, in little or large ways, who does not long for consolation? "Consolation" is defined briefly on the Internet as "something that makes you feel less unhappy or disappointed."
Consolation is much-elevated among religions, which, of course, are in the consolation business. But even those who could give a fig about religion still find themselves in need of consolation. Deep down or in the shallows, how I would love to be consoled... don't I deserve it?And when, over time, the consolations of this life fail to appear, there may be an easy-peasy bitterness that can arise ... a bitterness that, too, longs for consolation. Consolation casts a pretty wide net.
But together with this very-human attribute -- an attribute not to be scoffed at or held at bay philosophically -- what would things be like in a world where consolation were not necessary?
How would that be for a consolation prize?
.
the Idealism Gene on April Fools' Day
.
It wouldn't surprise me in the least if someone gathered information proving that every person on earth looked up to someone or something else.
Who knows, maybe human beings have an Idealism Gene and that gene encourages growth and effort, for better or worse.
More money, more territory, more power, more wisdom, more goodness, more love, more athletic prowess, more Hershey bars ... and someone or something else shines brightly as an example of what is so alluring.
But my experience is that when coming face to face with the someone or something that embodies what is looked up to, the someone or something is largely or totally unaware of the bright light they have produced in another's heart. What is extraordinary to others is just workaday stuff for the living example. Did Mother Teresa or Gandhi reflect on their goodness? Probably so, but to the extent that they did, how could the light they shed not be dimmed? A tennis player who is in the midst of a winning streak game reflects on his 'good' game at his peril. Why? Because thinking about a 'good' game takes energy and attention away from playing a good game. Better to leave the 'excellence' to others ... and play a good game.
Which is more important -- to praise and adore the compassion of a Jesus or Gautama Buddha or to bring a very personal compassion to bear on Jesus or Gautama Buddha? These were, after all, just men doing what they did. To elevate or denigrate them is possible, but does it really make much sense? A (wo)man does what s/he does. Do they sit around picking their noses about what they do -- "I got up this morning and decided I would be holy" -- or do they do what they do ... period? Maybe what they do will have good results. Maybe not. And still, they just do what they do and, with luck, learn to correct their mistakes.
This being April 1, April Fools' Day, perhaps it is a good day to reflect on the Idealism Gene. How long can anyone be so foolish? And the answer, of course, is "pretty damned long." But that doesn't mean there can't be some effort to overcome that foolishness ... do what we do with care and willingness and then see clearly exactly what's going on. Every day a fool. Every day a creator of not-terribly inventive tales... Jesus! Joseph! and Mary!
Me, I want to be a better liar. Who knows, maybe if I were a better liar, I could stop lying and enjoy a truth whose banality is nothing short of genius ... stop longing for genius and just be the genius I am, you are, he/she/or it is.
PS. On a more practical, laughable April Fools' Day frequency, here is the Museum of Hoaxes ... a place chock-a-block with wonderful lies.
.
It wouldn't surprise me in the least if someone gathered information proving that every person on earth looked up to someone or something else.
Who knows, maybe human beings have an Idealism Gene and that gene encourages growth and effort, for better or worse.
More money, more territory, more power, more wisdom, more goodness, more love, more athletic prowess, more Hershey bars ... and someone or something else shines brightly as an example of what is so alluring.
But my experience is that when coming face to face with the someone or something that embodies what is looked up to, the someone or something is largely or totally unaware of the bright light they have produced in another's heart. What is extraordinary to others is just workaday stuff for the living example. Did Mother Teresa or Gandhi reflect on their goodness? Probably so, but to the extent that they did, how could the light they shed not be dimmed? A tennis player who is in the midst of a winning streak game reflects on his 'good' game at his peril. Why? Because thinking about a 'good' game takes energy and attention away from playing a good game. Better to leave the 'excellence' to others ... and play a good game.
Which is more important -- to praise and adore the compassion of a Jesus or Gautama Buddha or to bring a very personal compassion to bear on Jesus or Gautama Buddha? These were, after all, just men doing what they did. To elevate or denigrate them is possible, but does it really make much sense? A (wo)man does what s/he does. Do they sit around picking their noses about what they do -- "I got up this morning and decided I would be holy" -- or do they do what they do ... period? Maybe what they do will have good results. Maybe not. And still, they just do what they do and, with luck, learn to correct their mistakes.
This being April 1, April Fools' Day, perhaps it is a good day to reflect on the Idealism Gene. How long can anyone be so foolish? And the answer, of course, is "pretty damned long." But that doesn't mean there can't be some effort to overcome that foolishness ... do what we do with care and willingness and then see clearly exactly what's going on. Every day a fool. Every day a creator of not-terribly inventive tales... Jesus! Joseph! and Mary!
Me, I want to be a better liar. Who knows, maybe if I were a better liar, I could stop lying and enjoy a truth whose banality is nothing short of genius ... stop longing for genius and just be the genius I am, you are, he/she/or it is.
PS. On a more practical, laughable April Fools' Day frequency, here is the Museum of Hoaxes ... a place chock-a-block with wonderful lies.
.
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